Delicately, Madly
by Queen Lua
Summary: The room that Reyson's imprisoned in is windowless.


_Many thanks to rethira for betaing._

* * *

The room that Reyson's imprisoned in is windowless. His first room hadn't been—that room had been worthy of a palace, with rich purple bedding and arching bay-windows. But Reyson had proven too flighty—when he made his first escape attempt, diving out the window in the middle of the night, Oliver began hiring night guards. When Reyson escaped again, by waiting until the night-guard's attention wandered, Oliver doubled the guards' number. Then, when Reyson made yet another dash for the window by punching one of the guards in the face (breaking the bones in his hand all over again)—well, that was when Oliver decided to move him to this room.

"It doesn't need to be this way," Oliver had cooed, leading Reyson up a long, spiraling staircase. "You know I only want what's best for you. If you'd known how to stay put, we wouldn't have to move you here, mm?"

Reyson's hands clenched into fists—oh, how he'd love to punch the fat lard-sack all over again—but his hands were bound uselessly behind him. So instead, he craned his neck and spat at the duke, squarely in his eyes.

* * *

The pocket-knife is dropped carelessly by one of the guards—a dull, blunt thing, hardly useful for anything other than whittling wood. It's only three inches long, and it's so old that the folding-hinge is covered in rust.

The guard doesn't even seem to notice when it slips out of his pocket. Perhaps it's just a trifle, to him—some bit of rubbish he never bothered discarding—but to Reyson, it's more precious than gold.

Reyson's eyes fly to the blade as it falls to the ground—but just as quickly, he looks away. If the guard notices him staring at it, then he might pick it back up. So Reyson only dares short, fleeting glances at the thing, until the guard's shift ends and the next guard's begins. He has a few seconds, then, maybe five, to grab the knife and slip it into his tunic.

The curve and the glint of the blade reminds him of hawks' talons, he thinks wistfully, glancing at his own pale, thin fingers. That night he places the folded knife under his pillow—holding the handle as he sleeps, clenching it tightly in his dreams.

* * *

After two days in the windowless room, he can feel the sickness setting in.

He tries to fight it—the nausea in his stomach, the weakness in his arms, the ache in his wings—but how can he fight his own desperation? Oliver's spared no expense for Reyson's quarters, but it's all _wrong_—garish gas-lamps in place of sunlight, overtrimmed potted ferns in place of forest, and richly-painted wallpapers that, to Reyson, stink of must and oil. And all the finery in the world can't change the fact that he's trapped in this damn attic, trapped like a rat. He wishes he _were_ one, a rat—because no one ever kept and crowed over a rat in a cage before.

Being near Oliver makes it worse. The man's mind is a vile, chaotic mess; when he comes to visit Reyson (a nigh-daily occurrence), he can't _help_but glimpse his thoughts—they always makes him feel nauseous; often, it's a struggle to keep from vomiting.

Even Oliver, as stupid as he is, begins to notice—"What's ailing you, Reyson?"

Reyson pauses long before he answers. "I need the air," he says at length. "I need to fly." And he hates himself even for that small admission; it sounds too much like begging.

The duke frowns, pursing his lips, considering Reyson's words. Some dumb, desperate hope stirs in Reyson, then—maybe he'll be let out of this horrid room, maybe there'll be another chance for an escape... But Oliver shakes his head: "You're so much safer in here, don't you see?" There's a faint, frenzied pitch to the duke's voice that sends an involuntary shudder down Reyson's spine. "No, better to keep you in here. What it must be is the food; I must supply you with fresher things, I think—that'll fix it, I'm sure."

Reyson grits his teeth, flexing his wings in irritation—but Oliver just sighs and smiles at the sight. "Ah, you're so _fierce_, so _precious_."

Reyson scowls and snaps his wings shut, but Oliver's still smiling as he leaves the room.

* * *

"See, just like that," Oliver says, "you're doing so _well_!"

_Fat toad_, Reyson thinks. He pours another cup of tea.

The date of "the event," as the Duke calls it, presses ever closer. Ten days—ten days and he'll be "introduced" to all of Oliver's friends and acquaintances—Duke Gaddos primary among them, as Oliver's reminded Reyson a hundred times.

"We ought to practice first," Oliver had said. That's what this is, evidently—"practice" —as if Reyson's some dolt who doesn't know how to pour some damn tea for company. Reyson's already thwarted a dozen attempts at "practice," naturally—he's broken china, thrown tantrums, kicked guards, scrambled for the door—but Oliver is persistent as he is useless. It's gone on for days, and nothing seems to deter Oliver's insistence that Reyson can be tamed, reasoned with, made calm and serene and subservient like a heron _ought_ to be—

And Reyson _is_ docile, today. A good thing, too, for Oliver—he's invited some guests over, as a sort of preview—an excuse to show Reyson off in advance, and to ensure that Reyson can behave.

The sudden turnaround is unexpected, but Oliver doesn't comment—probably afraid that saying anything will break the mood—so he leaves Reyson to the tea, goes to greet his guests in the parlor, and on cue, he calls: "Come now, Reyson!"

Reyson enters, gripping the tray (too tightly—but the guests don't notice that). There's just two others—neither as bloated as Oliver, though both just as garishly dressed, a man and a woman. When he enters the room, both of them gasp—"Oh, you're such a pretty thing," the lady coos, "aren't you?" It's the insufferable kind of voice used to talk to hatchlings or idiots; Reyson stiffens and grits his teeth.

"Go on, bring the tea this way," Oliver says.

Reyson remains rooted.

Oliver frowns—he's too familiar with this petty sort of disobedience; he's anxious of what's coming next. More broken china? another tantrum? But the lady is unfazed: "Oh, he probably doesn't _understand_, Duke Tanas," she chides lightly. "You know they all speak that old barbarian tongue. Here," she says, rising from her seat, "I'll just go to him—"

Reyson keeps still—just for a moment. He waits for her to come close, waits until he can smell the rank perfume on her—and then, with a kind of speed that would impress even a cat laguz, he steps back and hurls the tea-tray at the lady with all the force he can muster.

The tea's scalding-hot. He made sure of that; he can hear it hissing hot on her skin as she screams. The half-dozen teacups shatter on the floor, and Reyson feels some of the shards hit him as the lady collapses. The man rushes beside her as a dozen guards rush into the room to grab Reyson, and Oliver's just shaking, pale, too shocked to even remind the guards to be _gentle_ with his delicate _heron_.

Reyson's sneering as the guards spit insults at him (freak, subhuman, trash), yanking him backwards, gripping his arms so tightly they bruise—let Oliver _try_ to _show him off_, after this little incident, let him _try_.

* * *

He hadn't wanted to use the chains, Oliver explains quietly—breathing into Reyson's ear as they rattle in his hands. But there has to be punishment for misbehavior, now, isn't that right? And once you learn your manners, why, of course the chains will come off. Just as soon as you learn to be a good, quiet, calm little heron, like herons ought to be.

Once the irons are clasped around Reyson's ankles and wrists, the duke reaches a hand out for his wing. Reyson stiffens at the touch, folding his wings inward, as tightly as they'll go. But Oliver frowns, grabs the wing, and pulls it toward him, spreading the feathers with his hands. "Let me go," Reyson hisses, straining against the pull. He reaches out to shove Oliver away—but the cuffs, which are chained to the floor, catch his wrists, and he can't reach the duke, can't even reach past his toes.

Oliver doesn't even seem to notice; with his little fat fingers he's stroking the feathers—groping them, more like, fingering them so heavily and roughly that Reyson winces at every touch. The duke's so close, Reyson can smell the stink of sweat on him, so close that Reyson can't help sensing the duke's thoughts—

—and for the first time Reyson's not just resentful, or defiant, or angry—he's just frightened. The duke's fingers keep crawling, crawling from his wingtips toward the coverts, closer and closer to his back. And as they do so, Reyson can feel the curve of the duke's thoughts—erratic, unstable, driven by something black like hunger, something so primal and cruel that Reyson shudders just at the sensation of it—and it's growing. He can feel the duke's grin broadening; he feels those thoughts growing more scattered, more intense. So when Oliver's fingers stop _only_ at the small of his back, at the base of his neck, Reyson feels a small, relieved sigh escape him, and he realizes he's been holding himself stiff and still the whole time.

"Splendid," the duke whispers, pulling himself away, letting his fingers graze the tips of Reyson's primaries as he does so (and just that grazing touch sends a shudder through him, now). "You are a splendid specimen, Reyson."

_Specimen_. He hates that word, and normally he would tell Oliver as much—but that sweat-stench is still in the air, and the duke's still too close; his very thoughts are making him ill, making him nauseous. So Reyson simply sits, as if paralyzed, until the duke leaves the room.

* * *

Three days until the event.

Reyson still hasn't had a chance to use the knife—the knife he's kept in his hands every night, that he's kept close to him every day. He may never have a chance to use it, now—ever since the incident in the parlor, Oliver has taken to sending his guards ahead of him before each visit to chain him down—keeping Reyson uselessly chained to the floor as Oliver runs those grubby _fingers_ over him...

Reyson grits his teeth and shudders, thinking of it—to distract himself, he grabs the knife and flips the blade open, imagining that it's a sharp-edged talon, like the hawks have, rather than some flimsy, loathsome human craft. He stretches his arm as he holds the knife, imagining that it's thick and muscled like Tibarn's—

_Tibarn_. And Reyson bites his lip and tightens his grip on the knife, thinking of him. That bloated duke never could've kept Tibarn here; the hawk-king would've punched and clawed his way through a dozen, two dozen guards; he would've broken Oliver's _neck_ rather than just his _nose_. And Reyson sighs, closing his eyes, and wishes for brown wings, imagines he had a hawk's shriek rather than his useless heron's song—

—but then the guards and Oliver enter, and the delusion is shattered by chains, by his own pale and useless arms.

Today, though, Oliver's carrying food—odd, since normally it's the guards who keep Reyson fed. Reyson stiffens and edges backward as the duke approaches, but Oliver stops short, setting a tray of fruit and a glass full of bright-red liquid in front of him.

Reyson eyes the glass first. "Plum wine," Oliver says, scooting the glass closer. "I thought you'd like a treat, with your debut coming so soon."

Reyson glances at Oliver (who's doing that awful grinning, quivering thing again), then back at the glass. He lifts it to his face, sniffs—but the scent's off. He swirls the glass once, eying it carefully, then sets it down, shoving it back towards Oliver.

"You're not thirsty?"

"I didn't say that," Reyson answers slowly, glowering. "What did you put in my drink, duke?"

Oliver purses his lips. He's thinking about lying, Reyson can tell—and, not for the first time, Reyson wonders that such a stupid man has managed to accumulate such wealth. Surely this man, of all people, knows better than to try lying to a heron? At last, the duke sighs: "It's just a little relaxant, my dear Reyson." He's fidgeting with the handkerchief in his hands; he won't meet Reyson's eyes. "I _will _need you to behave in front of my guests, you know, three days from now."

"A 'relaxant'." Reyson practically spits the euphemism, even as he feels his blood running cold in his veins. That could be any _number_ of drugs—drugs meant to subdue, or make susceptible to suggestion, or erase memory, or—

The duke looks offended, now, as if Reyson had just rejected a particularly generous housewarming gift. "I thought I'd have you get used to it, first," he says, grabbing the drink away, "as a courtesy to you. But we can wait until the day of, if you prefer."

"I won't take it," Reyson shouts at the duke's back. "I'll _die_ first."

Somehow, that touches a nerve; when the duke whirls to face Reyson his expression is distorted, his voice a low hiss: "No, my pet, you will take it. Just wait."

* * *

On the morning of the event, Reyson's turning the blade over in his hands.

Yes, Reyson could try and stab one of the guards, when they try to chain him—but there'll just be three more, and even if he stabs them all, there'll just be more where that came from—as _if_ he could overpower a guard, anyway. He hasn't got the strength for that, he knows. Tibarn does, but he never will.

He hasn't eaten in two days despite all of Oliver's urging; the very thought of food makes him queasy. He's got an hour before the guards come, today. What'll it be like, he wonders vaguely—all those senators around him—will they all be like Oliver? Could they be _worse_? And he knows the duke's going to slip him that drug, whatever it is—he'll refuse it, of course, but him versus five guards, they can easily slip it down his throat—

—and he's sweating and shaking just thinking of it. Maybe he's just panicking. Maybe he just needs to wait, needs to be patient; maybe even right now Tibarn's searching for him. Just endure for now—stoic as the herons have always been, have been _forced_ to be. But two weeks have already gone by, the longest two weeks he's ever known, and he knows he can't stand another day, another _minute_, with this fat fool in this blasted attic.

And that's when the idea comes to him—terrible, stupid, desperate. But an idea nonetheless.

With a tense, heavy sigh, he stretches his wings. He scowls, looking at them now—the cursed goddamn _beauty _of them, the stupid frail white feathers that drew the duke's covetous eyes—

He'll undo all that.

With one smooth, deliberate motion, he reaches for a primary feather, grips it tightly, and with a wince he plucks the thing out.

Then another, then another—within a few minutes, there's a small pile of feathers next to him, and by the time he hears the guards' approaching footsteps, it's a thick dusting on the floor all around him.

When the guards enter the room, wielding their chains, Reyson's waiting for them—his wings folded tightly against his back, holding the knife-blade to his own throat.

"Bring me Oliver," Reyson barks, "and Oliver alone."

The guards balk. Reyson scowls.

"Do it or I'll end it right here. Do you want to be the ones responsible for that?" He twitches the blade closer to his own throat.

They exchange nervous glances, nod, and hurry away.

A few minutes later, Oliver enters the room—Oliver alone. "Reyson," he says, his voice thin and panicky, "my pet, what _ever_ are you doing?"

Slowly—deliberately—Reyson moves the blade from his throat and stretches his wings out wide. Oliver gasps at the sight; already, they're ragged and awful. Reyson managed to pluck them half-bare during that scant hour he had alone.

Reyson holds the blade in front of one of them now—holds the blade in front of his own wing. "Without these wings," Reyson says slowly, "I won't be much of a sight for Duke Gaddos, will I?"

Reyson can practically _see_ the blood draining from Oliver's face.

"Let me leave, Oliver," Reyson says—half-pleading, half-commanding. "You can't keep me here."

"You won't seriously—"

"I'll do it," Reyson hisses. "Don't think I won't."

Oliver's shaking, ever so slightly, but doesn't make any move toward Reyson, paralyzed by dread. Reyson's focusing on Oliver's mind, feeling for the slightest motion—and he feels Oliver's choice before Oliver consciously makes it. So before Oliver even calls out, "Guards," Reyson's moving.

He takes the knife, gripping his wing tightly with one hand, and hacks hard into the flesh beneath the feathers—he can't hold back his own screaming, but he doesn't relent, just digs the knife in deeper. Duke Oliver, unarmed, makes a blind dive for Reyson—Reyson side-steps easily, flapping to the side (in a way he relishes the tearing pain as he flexes his left wing; it means he did some real damage, means he's managed to _do _something for a change). Then, as Oliver struggles to pull himself off the floor, Reyson backpedals and raises the knife again, gritting his teeth as he plunges it into the flesh of the other wing, carving as quickly and as deeply as he can, one cut after another.

By the time the guards finally spill into the room, he's already woozy with blood loss, barely standing. He thought he'd steeled himself for this; why is he weakening already? He wishes the guard had dropped anything, _anything_ else, because the blade just isn't sharp enough; he's sawing hard against the large bone of his wing but he can't seem to cut any deeper, frail as he is (he's no Tibarn, not even a match for the weakest hawk, he thinks bitterly, and with a pained grunt he manages to wedge the blade in deeper).

He can see, now, in the fat duke's eyes: horror, disgust, fear. Reyson's no good to him, mangled this way; utterly worthless. Oliver will toss him out on the street, he can practically hear the duke now—_I won't have this filthy thing marring my good name_—and all the better. He doesn't need the wings; he'll _crawl _his way back to Tibarn if he has to—

A guard grips him from behind; another forces the knife out of his grasp. Reyson's never felt such agony before, never been in such pain, but even so, a grin's plastered on his face as he passes out—

—because he's won, he's won, he's _won_.

* * *

—but when he wakes, Oliver's still there.

He smells him, first—that's what wakes him, before he opens his eyes or twitches a muscle; the awful, putrid _scent_ of him.

But it can't be Oliver, he thinks dimly. Oliver would've thrown him out by now; Oliver would've been shrieking about the blood on the carpet and the filthiness of the now-mangled creature. After all, his wings—Reyson flexes his wings—and he startles, then, because they feel too _right_. Stiff as he is, he still manages to crane his neck to the side and crack his eyes open as he flexes a wing—and it's _there_, intact; he can feel the muscles stretching and the feathers spreading, as they should.

"You nearly lost these precious things forever," Oliver says, stroking the wing (Reyson flinches at the touch). "It's so fortunate I happened to have a healer visiting today; it might've been too late to save them otherwise."

_Fortunate_. Reyson closes his eyes with a heavy, ragged sigh. It occurs to him, vaguely, that now might be the moment to escape—it's just Oliver and a lone healer in the room, and he glimpsed a window while he was stretching that wings—

—but when he opens his eyes again and stares at that window, all he feels is a great heaviness settling, crushing down on him. Maybe it's just the after-effects of whatever drugs the healer's been using on him, or maybe it's something deeper—but either way he hasn't got the energy, hasn't got the strength to fight back right now, anymore.

Helplessly, he looks at his own outstretched feathers again. Goddamn these wings, he thinks, and folds them into himself once more, clenching his jaw so tightly he can hear his teeth scraping painfully against each other.

* * *

Months later, he's clenching those jaws again—though now he's free, and fighting, and far removed from that rat's attic. But in the distance, sweeping down the frosty peaks above Tor Garen, Reyson sees the shape of a shadow he's too familiar with: traitor, dastard, wretched crow, faithless friend—Naesala.

When Naesala arrives in front of him, Reyson's lost his sense of the battle—he _ought_ to be focusing on the Crimeans, ought to be singing his galdrar—but instead he's glaring at Naesala, fists clenched, silent. Naesala's saying _something_, but Reyson can't hear it, and it's not just because of the wind roaring down the peaks around them. He looks at Naesala, and all he can think of is the last time he saw him, and the month of hell that followed, that fat toad and the fingers and chains and _precious specimen_—

Then, interrupting whatever the raven was saying, Reyson cuts in coldly: "How much, Naesala?"

Naesala looks puzzled. "What?"

The _gall_; Reyson's shaking when he repeats himself: "How much? How much did you sell me for? What was I worth, to you?"

"Come on, it's fine now, isn't it? Smooth those ruffled feathers—"

Naesala reaches out, but Reyson twitches away reflexively. He thinks he could go the whole rest of his life and never want to be touched again.

Naesla frowns, pulling his hand away. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Reyson laughs coldly. "Me? Friends with a slaver?"

Even Naesala's bristles, being called out like that: "Reyson, I'm no _slaver_; I didn't really _sell_ you—"

"What _would_ you call it, then? A _loan_, a _contract_?"

Naesala opens his mouth to respond—but then closes it, frowning. He fidgets where he stands, scratching a hand against the back of his neck—when he speaks again, his voice is low and hushed and placating: "Well, I knew you were _safe_, and being well-cared for and all, and I was planning to rescue you out of there anyway. And... and that's just how dealings with humans go, sometimes—but you got out, see? It's not like you were..."

Then Naesala falters. Reyson's wings are outstretched behind him, the way hawks spread their wings in warning toward their enemies—a threat that's voiceless, coming from Reyson, but one that silences Naesala nonetheless.

"I mean... I was in the wrong. On all accounts."

"You _were_ wrong," Reyson hisses, in a voice cold as the ice and snow around them. Naesala falls silent, and Reyson stares hard at him—but he can't get a good look at the raven's eyes, and he can't tell if it's remorse that's making Naesala look away, or pity, or just confusion. _Look at me_, he thinks—and, shaking, not knowing what else to say, he repeats: "You were wrong."


End file.
